As heroic as they come

PRESCOTT VALLEY, Ariz. John Lamb, a bear of a man who snuffs out wildfires for a living, is as close to a vice president of the United States as he's ever been, only a few dozen yards away.

But Lamb barely sees Joe Biden, hardly hears the vice president's eulogy on Tuesday for the 19 Granite Mountain Hotshots who died less than two weeks ago.

Lamb, superintendent for an Orange County Fire Authority wildlands crew, can't help but think of when he shared time with his deceased friend and teacher, Hotshot Jesse James Steed, father to two girls, ages 3 and 4.

Lamb also can't help doing something he never does, not in public anyway.

Cry.

Being inside the arena with some 6,000 firefighters is a strange mix of honor, humility and heartbreak. When those who serve are asked to stand, almost no one is left sitting.

Moreover, mourning the deaths of so many men – some only 21 years old, such as Newport Beach native Grant McKee and former Seal Beach resident Kevin Woyjeck – feels more intimate than mourning the death of one man.

In front of the stage are 19 firefighter “crosses,” helmets on axes, boots on the ground. Behind each cross is a photograph of a man who should have had a long life. Some were dads; others will never have the chance to be dads.

But death can be complicated. As one firefighter and I agree, the loss is staggering, overwhelming.

Yet each man who perished wanted to serve, volunteered to put his life on the line to save homes and families.

As the memorial continues, you find yourself contemplating what defines a hero.

During the memorial, Prescott Fire Chief Dan Fraijo makes it clear he knew each of the firefighters who died on Yarnell Hill, less than 25 miles from here. Like several other speakers, he also makes it clear he loved each man.

Yet Fraijo is blunt about their chosen profession, “There's always a threat of being injured and, God forbid, of being killed.”

I swallow hard as Fraijo continues. After all, just in front of the chief sit more than a hundred grieving relatives, mothers without sons, wives without husbands, children without fathers.

But in concluding his remarks, Fraijo acknowledges that mourning men who were brave hurts all the more. “My fondest wish,” Fraijo tells the gathering, “is that my tears could wash away the pain that you feel.”

As Fraijo leaves the podium, the stark point remains that this is a memorial service for people who applied for what is a very dangerous profession. For those who avoid risk, the idea of seeking out such a profession may be confusing at best, troubling at worst.

But what if we had no one willing to face towering walls of fire racing at gale-force speeds?

Consider that it was only six years ago that a dozen firefighters in Orange County were forced to deploy their final-hope fire sacks that were similar to the ones that the Yarnell 19 died in.

Our firefighters were fortunate. They lived.

I don't recall any celebrations for those firefighters, standing ovations calling them heroes.

But had they died we would have erected a monument.

Before the service, a senior firefighter tells me he doesn't think he's a hero. He offers that he knew exactly what he was getting into when he put on the firefighter's badge.

His comment echoes what a friend of mine said when we visited Ground Zero in New York only months after 9/11. I called those who died heroes. “They're not heroes,” she scoffed. “People who don't know what they're doing and save others are heroes.”

Perhaps the definition of a hero is personal.

Pastor Ron Merrell of Heights Church takes the stage and addresses his God: “It felt like a bit of hell these last few weeks for the Granite Mountain Hotshots. … Would you please replace the despair with hope? We're desperate to see some heaven now.”

Merrell continues, giving his perspective on when someone becomes a hero: “These men were heroes before they lost their lives.”

Tim Hill, president of the Professional Firefighters of Arizona, echoes Merrell, noting that the 19 who died knew of the terrible risks battling wildfires. Hill says, “We gather in honor of the sacrifice of our members.”

Yes, sacrifice.

Biden takes the podium and immediately addresses the heroism issue. He calls the firefighters who saved his sons in a tragic car wreck heroes. He adds that heroes saved his home when lightning hit.

The vice president tells the standing-room-only audience, which includes hundreds baking outside in the Arizona sun, that, “All men are created equal – and then a few became firefighters.

“They run toward danger, not away from it.”

The vice president smiles and receives appreciative and knowing smiles from the men and women in uniform. But Biden uses the word “hero” so often it devalues one of the most significant nouns in the English language.

Using the Jaws of Life to free injured people isn't heroic. It's skill.

Putting on a Hotshot uniform and facing hellfire?

Dan Bates, a local firefighter, takes the stage and gets a standing ovation for praising Brendan McDonough, the lone survivor of the squad at Yarnell.

With McDonough onstage, Bates explains the young Hotshot “is carrying on the strength and tradition of his brothers.”

Heroism.

Bates also points out that Hotshots “work deep in the woods, far from the public eye.”

Harold Schaitberger, president of the International Association of Firefighters, is more direct. He declares, “Most of the time, Hotshots' work is invisible.”

Schaitberger's point is carried by breezes that blow through the canyons and ridges of Orange County. It wasn't too long ago that I joined Lamb as he worked in the heat in dry brush off Ortega Highway.

It was work that few see, that no one notices – until there's a raging wildfire.

And that's when heroes start their work.

David Whiting's column appears four days a week. dwhiting@ocregister.com

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